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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664226">sunlight between the sway of leaves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulila/pseuds/lazulila'>lazulila</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gender-Neutral My Unit | Byleth, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-War, Slow Burn, post AM route</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:53:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,952</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulila/pseuds/lazulila</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been companions for a long time, through turmoil and upheaval, war and ashes, joy and renewal.</p><p>Byleth can't help but notice that maybe their feelings have changed with the seasons.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>My Unit | Byleth/Seteth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sunlight between the sway of leaves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a side story that takes place first before the events of To This Vow, I Hold Fast, and then during, which is an ongoing dimiclaude fic of mine. You can find it via my profile if that's your thing, but it's not necessary to know it to read this one. There'll be mentions and allusions to it, but it's in the background and doesn't affect the focus of this story. There are little easter eggs, if you're hawk-eyed and care to look :3c<br/>It's slow burn...ish. But I don't think it will be super long, maybe only a few parts, so I'm not sure if that counts, hahaha. But, in spirit.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    As they have spent many days into evenings before, Seteth sits at his desk before the window,  while Byleth takes the low coffee table in front of his office sofa. They don’t have his stamina for sitting at a desk. Never have, never will. His posture is as disciplined as the rest of him, while he labors away at the never ending pile of papers and books that pile up along the edges of his desk.</p><p>    They have never been able to be as still as him, either, and so prefer the couch, where they can spread out at their leisure. Lie down, cross their legs, drape themselves over the edge of the seat with their back on the floor and legs sprawled on the cushions.</p><p>    In the beginning, Seteth used to cluck his tongue, scolding that it wasn’t the way a professor should behave. Or a well adjusted adult, for that matter.</p><p>    “Who says I’m a well adjusted adult?” Byleth had replied indifferently, turning the page of the book they had propped up on their chest. “Would you?”</p><p>    “Most certainly not.”</p><p>    “There you go.”</p><p>    After a while, he ceased arguing, and simply let Byleth conduct themselves however they wanted.</p><p>    Now, he’ll simply step over them if he needs to. The more time they spent together, the more he realized it was best to simply let them be, because a Byleth shoved upright in a straight-backed chair was a quick way to also get a fidgety and impatient one.</p><p>    What’s more, he decides that it simply isn’t worth the headache.</p><p>    “I’m not bothering anyone.” Byleth had protested, turning over onto their stomach and propping up on their elbows to look at him. “What do you care, as long as no one else sees me have the audacity to be comfortable?”</p><p>    “...Very well.” Seteth had sighed and given them that. “As long as you behave properly when appropriate.”</p><p>    Tonight, Byleth is sprawled out on the long cushions, legs hanging over the armrest while they read a series of absolutely fascinating reports on the types of wood the carpenters would prefer for the new churches in the local villages, and their suggestions for how to supply them.</p><p>    It is <em> very </em> thorough, <em> very </em> detailed, and has Byleth dreaming of a hard drink.</p><p>    With a sigh kept soft so as not to disturb Seteth’s concentration, they drop the wad of sheets on the table beside them.</p><p>    The sound of his pen comes into loud, distant focus, scratching diligently across parchment after parchment. That, along with the sweet shuffle of papers, is enough to close their eyes to.</p><p>    It’s a soothing and familiar routine by now. Even with their eyes closed, they can imagine his handwriting. Neat, uniform, in a beautifully ornate sort of penmanship that’s barely legible unless one learns how to read it, like its own language.</p><p>    “You write like an old man.” They’d quipped once, and Flayn had giggled behind her hand.</p><p>    “So I’m told. Go back to grading.” He’d traded back without glancing up.</p><p>    Differences aside, he has been by their side through the entire war. Never more than a step away.</p><p>    <em> No </em>, they amend. It has been far longer than that.</p><p>    Even when he had been upfront with his reservations about them, when Blyeth was new to the monastery, he had still offered himself for guidance, if they ever wanted it.</p><p>    Surprisingly, they had. Everything from crafting lectures to scheduling their office hours, to where to find the best cobbler in town for the coin.</p><p>    And for years, he has been such a steady presence, that they hadn’t even noticed how used to it they had become. Byleth’s not sure when exactly they drift off in a doze. But they must, because they wake to Seteth’s voice above them.</p><p>    “Perhaps it is time to call it a day. It <em> is </em> quite late.”</p><p>    Blyeth mumbles sleepily. Nothing coherent, which proves the point, and makes Seteth smile, lit warmly by the candlelight.</p><p>    “Come.”</p><p>    “I’ll sleep here.”</p><p>    “Nonsense,” Seteth shakes his head and pats their shoulder. “Come on, now. To your rooms. You need proper rest.”</p><p>    “Ugh.” Is all Byleth has to say as they roll onto their feet.</p><p>    Seteth sees them to the door, but rather than follow them out to turn in himself, he bids them goodnight and turns back into his office.</p><p>    Blyeth stares at the closed door, where he’ll work until who knows when.</p><p>    “Unbelievable.”</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    Predictably, Seteth is already in his office when Blyeth arrives the next morning, a pastry hanging from their mouth when they knock on the door to be let in.</p><p>    Flayn is already there, squealing her delight when Byleth wordlessly hands her a jam-filled sweet roll.</p><p>    “Thank you! This looks delicious.” She gives Byleth a quick hug around the middle before scooting off to round up some tea to go along with it, leaving Byleth to watch her leave.</p><p>    “How long have you been in here?”</p><p>    “Don’t fret over me. I rested.” Seteth says assuringly, dabbing his pen in his inkwell.</p><p>    “...You did sleep, right? You went to bed?”</p><p>    Seteth pauses, and that makes Blyeth pause.</p><p>    “Seteth. Where did you sleep?”</p><p>    The scratching of his pen hesitates.</p><p>    “I slept...on. The couch.”</p><p>    For what it’s worth, he squirms in his seat under Blyeth’s stare.</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    Seteth had held them, once.</p><p>    Back when Jeralt had died, and everyone had spent the days following collectively grieving. Extending sympathies to Byleth, and offering hands that they didn’t quite know how to take.</p><p>    Up until then, their father had been the one constant in their life. They had spent their life in travel, with faces coming and going as mercenaries in their pack had left, or had died. The faces of the people they met in small towns and big cities alike blurred like muddy rain puddles.</p><p>    Every time someone said his name, gave their condolences, <em> your father, your father, your father </em>, his image came to mind, as clearly as if they had just seen him that very morning.</p><p>    His laugh, his hand on their shoulder. The gruffness of his voice in the morning, how many steins of ale he could put down before Byleth had to drag him out of the tavern. How he’d given them their first mug of beer, how he’d taught them how to hold and swing a weapon.</p><p>    They could scarcely look at a pond without thinking of long, listless afternoons that they spent fishing, beneath sunny skies and cloudy covers. Quiet nights around a campfire, entire days spent riding, afternoons spent tanning hides and sewing lessons that left their fingertips bruised and sore.</p><p>    <em> Sorry about your father. </em></p><p> <em> Your father, your father, your father. </em></p><p>    They are thinking about all of this and more, rooted to the floor as they stare blankly at the shelves before them. Unable to fathom why it was they had risen from their desk, what they had come to the bookcase to find.</p><p>    A knock comes at the door, and they must make some sort of noise, because Seteth lets himself in.</p><p>    “Professor Byleth.”</p><p>    Even he speaks a little softer around them, a little slower.</p><p>    But then he doesn’t continue, and Byleth asks, perhaps a little curt, “What is it?”</p><p>    Seteth pauses, then closes the door behind him. “I wanted to check on the progress for your materials list for next term. However, if you need some more time...that’s perfectly understandable.”</p><p>    Indifferent, Byleth pulls a random tome off the shelf, a thick text with a worn leather cover. The title reads <em> Divine Minerals: A Practical Application for Geographic Materials in the Use of Faith and Reason Practices </em>in faded lettering.</p><p>    They flip it open, turning pages to skim. But none of the words make sense, all of it a blur before their eyes.</p><p>    Instead, they try to focus on the illustrations; glyph diagrams, drawings of various minerals and stones.</p><p>    “...Professor.” Seteth beseeches.</p><p>    “I’ll have it done next week.”</p><p>    “...Very well.”</p><p>    Falling to silence, they can hear the distant sounds from outside. Students hurrying past, their voices and footsteps quickly fading. The dinner bell rings, barely audible from the offices.</p><p>    “...Byleth.” Seteth says, tone direct. “About Jeralt—”</p><p>    <em> “Enough.” </em></p><p>    Byleth growls, jaw snapping shut after the word is loose.</p><p>    Brow tensing, Seteth pauses before trying again. “I would just like to say—”</p><p>    “I said <em> enough! </em>”</p><p>    And with that, Byleth turns on their heel, flings the book across their office to slam into the far wall, crumpling to the floor below. And because it feels good, feels right, they snatch an empty decanter off their desk, and hurl that too, letting it smash against the stone wall into glass splinters.</p><p>    “I want people to stop saying his name,” Byleth curls their fists at their sides, teeth gnashing. “I can’t go anywhere without people saying <em> I’m sorry </em> , <em> I’m soooo sorry, my condolences </em>.”</p><p>    Rage. Burning, visceral, sour in their throat.</p><p>    Seteth stands in silence, listening, watching as Byleth slams their fists onto their desk. Once, twice, the wood giving a dangerous crack. Shoulders heaving with shaking anger as they pace, pace, throw another book to the far wall, dangerously close to the window.</p><p>    “What good does it do? I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to <em> hear </em> it anymore. I want everyone to shut up, <em> shut up, SHUT UP </em> , stop talking about him. Why can’t anyone leave me <em> alone </em> about it—!”</p><p>    With a few quick, decisive steps, Seteth is upon them.</p><p>    Byleth is shocked to silence when he suddenly pulls them into a fierce embrace, instinctively squirming before going still, as he settles his arm around their shoulders, the other hand on the back of their head.</p><p>    “You have suffered a great loss.” He whispers. “I know that pain all too well.”</p><p>    All goes still, the world suddenly soft around the edges. Everything, hyper focused on their boot heel grinding hard on the wooden floorboards, Seteth’s fingers smoothing down their hair. The warmth of him.</p><p>    Byleth begins to sob.</p><p>    It is, to memory, the first time they ever have. Soft, shaky, warbling things of grief. A watery breath, then hot tears that begin to drown their vision.</p><p>    Humiliated, face burning, they bury their face into his chest, strands of hair catching on the embroidery of his jacket.</p><p>    But they cannot stop, and grow louder, louder, not even aware at first that they are clawing at his back. When they are, they cannot stop that either.</p><p>    Seteth lets them, unyielding in the face of their anguish.</p><p>    It is impossible to tell how long this goes on, the room filled with the sounds of Byleth’s crying, held secret by stone and glass and wood. Somehow, the gentle strokes of Seteth’s fingers along their hair coaxes the deepest, most painful wounds to bleed free.</p><p>    “...I want him back.” They sob. “I love him. I want him back. I miss him. <em> I want my father back. </em>”</p><p>    Only when they have screamed themselves to quiet, gasping for air they can barely take, does Seteth speak again.</p><p>    “Words of sympathy feel so empty right now, don’t they? You don’t want them, so I will not give them.”</p><p>    He’s close enough that his breath ruffles flyaway strands of their hair.</p><p>    “They will pay for it, Byleth. I promise. You will have justice. In the meantime…I am here to offer whatever comfort you need, to the best of my ability. You are surrounded by people who care for you.”</p><p>    As if Byleth hasn’t heard countless versions of these sentiments for the past two weeks.</p><p>    Maybe it is because they can feel his heartbeat against their cheek, or because they can smell the subtle scent of him. Pine, and grass, paper and candle flame. Things that have become as familiar as the halls of the monastery itself.</p><p>    Things that have begun to smell like a home.</p><p>    But they nod anyway, feeling smaller than they ever have in their life.</p><p>    Small. But safe.</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    After the incident in their office, Seteth becomes more common in their daily life. He doesn’t treat them delicately, knowing the opposite is very much the truth. But as abrasive as his directness may be, he also seems quick to realize when Byleth needs something softer.</p><p>    He often invites them to his office to work, rather than sit alone in their own. There, he scrawls diligently at his desk, while Byleth reads and writes, maybe a little less diligently. But he doesn’t sigh as heavily as he used to when they lay down, or roll themselves onto the floor to stretch.</p><p>    Sometimes he will appear at theirs unprompted, so they may still work together.</p><p>    On days where the mental and emotional casualties run high, he pries them out of exhausted stupor to lunch, or dinner, or simply a walk about the grounds.</p><p>    Flayn takes their presence in stride, happy to sit with them and embroider, or read. Byleth takes to swiping extra pastries from the kitchens for her, much to her joy and Seteth’s chagrin.</p><p>    Once the day is done, they will sometimes lounge about, or as much as Seteth is able to do something like it. Once in a while, they will talk, chatting about seemingly nothing of importance. With a mutual interest in fishing, that’s how they sometimes spend an afternoon, Flayn eagerly awaiting their catches.</p><p>    It’s the kind of easy companionship that Byleth isn’t accustomed to, at first. Their father wasn’t the most talkative of people, and neither are they. Most of their group wasn’t either; attachments were hard to make with people whom you may be parted with by the end of the next setting sun.</p><p>    But somehow, Seteth makes it simple. Although Byleth had never been intimidated by him, as many of the students are, it was easy to take him for someone uninterested in much other than his work.</p><p>    Before Byleth knows it, they hardly know a day without his company.</p><p>    After all, he somehow, always, always, knows where to find them.</p><p>    Like how he finds them years later, after years of separation and war.</p><p>They’re slumped against the side of the cathedral in a rainstorm, as though willing themselves to become a part of the stone. Bereft, at the state they have found Dimitri in upon their reunion. Brooding, hateful, angry. Snarling at the living, at the mercy of the dead, whose voices he claims to hear.</p><p>Without words, he coaxes them up and out of the downpour, into the dry refuge of the monastery.</p><p>    “I can’t reach him.”</p><p>    Byleth whispers it, misery all over their face. The lounge is cool today, the walls soaking in the cold from the world around them.</p><p>    “I can’t reach him.”</p><p>    Seteth looks over at them, from the linen closet where he’s drawing out a towel.</p><p>    A flash of lightning, and another clap of distant, rolling thunder. The rain coming in sheets against the window.</p><p>    Almost imperceptibly, Seteth sighs, and starts to run the cloth over Byleth’s hair.</p><p>    “It is...difficult.” He says simply. “Hard to know exactly what place he is in, and harder to draw him from it. What he is going through...is not as simple as treating an arrow wound.”</p><p>    “What will it take?” Byleth wonders, more to themselves than to Seteth.</p><p>    “What will it take?”</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    Every time Dimitri’s mind slips farther away, Byleth almost falls apart.</p><p>    Not where anyone can see them, of course. Not in ways that anyone can see.</p><p>    They keep reaching. They keep trying.</p><p>    Dimitri becomes a creature of nothing but claws and fangs, rage and death. Howling in the night at the spectors who haunt him, spilling enough blood in every battle to turn a sea red.</p><p>    And for every time he chases Byleth away, and Byleth goes missing, Seteth is the one to find them. It is always him who does, somehow, in the enormous expanse of the monastery.</p><p>    In a random hallway, staring listlessly out a window; beneath a tree on the far side of the grounds. In an empty classroom, pretending to thumb through one abandoned textbook or another. Sometimes they make it easy, and are sitting by the pond, staring at the water as though it has answers to give.</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    “This is too far,” Seteth says, dark and low, taking Byleth’s face in his hand to examine the brutal welt on their cheek. “Much too far.”</p><p>    Dimtiri had struck them. They had tried, again, to find him within the depths of his inconceivable rage, and had summoned it instead.</p><p>    Their pained cry of surprise, and the sound of them hitting the floor, had summoned people nearby. But no one dared go near him in the state he was, hissing curses and asking Byleth if their merciful goddess would like their blood as well.</p><p>    In shock, unable to fathom hurting him, even like this, they had simply watched him draw nearer. Teeth bared, large hands curled into talons, looming over them like some beast from hell himself, looking as though he meant to eat them alive, until more footsteps came rushing in.</p><p>    It took Dedue and Sylvain both to haul him off and away, thrashing all the while, spitting vitriol. Ingrid had half-guided, half-carried, Byleth to their feet and hurried them to safety, out of the cathedral.</p><p>    Once safe, they had wandered, feeling as empty as an upturned chalice. They hadn’t been thinking, but somehow they ended up en route to Seteth’s office, almost at the door when he had turned a corner and spotted them.</p><p>    But Byleth won’t give up on Dimitri, even with a cut lip and a swollen cheek.</p><p>    Seteth sees it clearly, and sighs, anger diffused with their sadness. Simply finds ice for their bruise, and lets them curl up on the armchair.</p><p>    He brings them dinner that night. When they finally rise from their seat and head for the door, he stops writing and looks up worriedly.</p><p>    “I’m just going back to my room to sleep,” They assure him softly. After a second thought, they add, “Goodnight. Thank you.”</p><p>    “...Goodnight.”</p><p>    Every time Byleth tries and fails to pull Dimitri out of the inky depths of his own mind, Seteth plays their lifeline.</p><p>    He doesn’t hold them again. Sometimes he’ll place a hand on their shoulder, pat their arm in sympathy. Brews them tea, shares a few drinks with them in the evening. Offers words of bitter honesty and cautious optimism in turn, whichever he deems they need in the moment of each unique mood.</p><p>    In the midst of Seteth’s quiet, assuring company, Byleth aches.</p><p>    Wants to be held again, sometimes catches themself looking longingly at him, from the corner of their eye.</p><p>    But Byleth does not know how to ask. It had been so long since they felt real comfort like that. And they have felt alone for so, so long.</p><p>    And when Dimitri finally does take their hand, the hope returns to Byleth’s eyes, still new and frail; bright as a gemstone, held up to the sun.</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    One day, months later, he finds them in a place both expected, and not.</p><p>    No one has seen them for a few hours; there is always something pressing, and they can be hard to find, but it isn’t like them to simply vanish.</p><p>    Seteth finds Byleth curled up at their father’s grave, wrapped up tightly in their cloak.</p><p>    “Professor Byleth,” He says, unsure how mad to be, kneeling to wake them. “Professor.”</p><p>    Slowly, they stir awake; blearily look at him as though unseeing.</p><p>    “Mmm?”</p><p>    <em> Why are you here? </em> Seems like a foolish question. <em> How did you fall asleep on a grave? </em> Is less so, but Seteth stops himself when he notices their ragged breathing.</p><p>    Slightly alarmed, he presses a hand to their shoulder, and they grumble, curling in further into themselves, eyes screwing shut.</p><p>    Byleth shudders, and mumbles, “My wound hurts.”</p><p>    “...What wound?”</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    He finds out in his office, door locked as Byleth sheds their coat, and eases up their shirt to reveal a gash across their side, the result of being clipped by an enemy blade in the last bout against Empire forces. They’d staunched it, slathered some ointment on it, and left it messily bandaged, old ones that they now carefully peel away.</p><p>    “Why didn’t you say anything?!” Seteth reprimands, hands suddenly <em> on </em> them, pulling the soiled fabric out of the way and turning them so he can bend down and get a better look.</p><p>    “It didn’t seem serious…”</p><p>    “Why would you ignore it?” Seteth presses a thumb near the reddened skin, and it makes Byleth flinch. “Even a minor wound needs treatment.”</p><p>    It isn’t terribly deep, but it hadn’t been properly taken care of. Possibly infected, probably even, maybe the reason now for the heat that is radiating from their flushed cheeks.</p><p>    “Not enough healers.”</p><p>    The battle had left too many injured for the overwhelmed mages and doctors.</p><p>    “Even afterwards, you should have had someone look at it.” Seteth scolds, perhaps a bit harsh.</p><p>    Byleth shrugs, a twinge of pain making them shudder.</p><p>    Realizing how off balance they really are, Seteth swiftly straightens, both hands gripping their shoulders to steady them.</p><p>    Byleth blinks lethargically, their breath coming thin and stuttering. Seteth critically examines the state of them, saying nothing before he guides them to the couch to sit.</p><p>There, he cleans out the wound as best he can, summoning Flayn to look at it.</p><p>    “Oh dear, <em> Professor </em>,” She laments, the warm coolness of her magic making its way over and through the damaged flesh. “You should have found someone right away!”</p><p>    It soothes the worst of the pain, and eases the throbbing of their head. When it is done, Seteth redresses the injury with fresh bandages, saying nothing.</p><p>    Flayn folds her hands in her lap, and tells Byleth apologetically, “Treating a fresh wound is easier. I have done what I can, but you will still need to rest. Your body is exhausted.”</p><p>    “It’s fine.” Byleth says softly. They let their eyes drift closed, gratefully sinking into the cushions. “Thank you.”</p><p>    Quickly falling into a half-doze, Seteth and Flayn’s voices become distant and blurred. Somewhere along the way, they hear the door open, close.</p><p>    Footsteps.</p><p>    The rustle of fabric, the scratching of a quill on parchment. The shuffling of papers, the creak of a chair, and a wooden knock as a drawer is shut.</p><p>    They fade in and out for a while, unsure of when sleep and waking begin and end.</p><p>    More footsteps.</p><p>    “The meeting is about to start. Stay here and rest. Flayn will be in to check on you while I am gone.”</p><p>    <em> The council meeting—  </em></p><p>    Byleth’s eyes open, meeting those of forest green, towering far above them.</p><p>    Seteth crosses his arms. “No, do not even think about it. You will remain here. I will inform everyone of the reason for your absence.”</p><p>    They don’t reply, but instead continue to look at him for several long beats, before nodding and closing their eyes again.</p><p>    Immediately, everything feels farther, slower.</p><p>    The smell of paper and old wood. Pine, and chamomile, and the flowers that sit in a vase on the table, the ones Flayn had picked from the greenhouse.</p><p>    More rustling, and then a blanket is draped over them, carefully arranged to cover them, all the way up to their chin.</p><p>    Byleth makes some completely unintelligible noise, hoping the sentiment is clear.</p><p>    They fall asleep at some point, coming and going from consciousness like the tide to a shore.</p><p>    A hand brushes across their cheek, probably checking for temperature; lingers.</p><p>    Byleth wants it to stay.</p><p>    But then it’s gone, and footsteps too heavy to be Flayn’s little feet move away.</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    When they wake, it’s nighttime. The lantern at Seteth’s desk is still burning bright, and he’s reading, jaw propped up on a fist.</p><p>    “You’re not still here because of me, are you?”</p><p>    Seteth looks up at their croaking voice. “Ah. Good, you’re awake.”</p><p>    He stands, placing the bookmarked volume neatly on the corner of his desk before he comes around it to make his way over.</p><p>    “And no, I am not here simply because of you.” He assures them, pouring out a cup of water from a jug to offer them. “I am often still here by this hour.”</p><p>    Byleth thanks him softly and sips, grateful for the cold relief of their dry mouth and throat. Looking at the clock, they both can and can’t quite believe Seteth would still be working at this time.</p><p>    Kneeling, Seteth examines their face, reaching with one hand before pausing.</p><p>    “May I?”</p><p>    Throat suddenly dry again, Byleth nods.</p><p>    Carefully, he presses the back of his hand against their temple, their forehead, their cheek.</p><p>    “You’re warm, but don’t seem to be feverish.” He judges, drawing back. “How are you feeling? How is the wound?”</p><p>    “Alright.” They answer. “What did I miss in the meeting?”</p><p>    “I’ll go over it with you tomorrow. You’ll be more refreshed after a full night of sleep than a few hours on my office couch.”</p><p>    Unwilling to argue, they glance again at the small tableside clock for the time.</p><p>    “You must take better care of yourself.” Seteth says sternly, standing tall, crossing his arms. “What would have happened if you were grievously injured? If it had gotten seriously infected, or the blade that struck you had been poisoned?”</p><p>    “Well, then,” Byleth answers blithely, watching the seconds tick by, “I guess I would have insisted a little harder for a healer.”</p><p>    Sighing, frustrated, Seteth shakes his head. “You are being much too flippant about this.”</p><p>    “And you are overreacting.” They answer calmly.</p><p>    “May I remind you I found you collapsed on,” The briefest of pauses on the taboo, “On the <em> ground </em>, halfway delirious?”</p><p>    “Not halfway. Maybe about a quarter.”</p><p>    Seteth stares at them, disbelievingly, looking ready to quip something else before he seems to think the better of it. Instead, he frowns, studying them while they continue to prefer the clock’s face than his.</p><p>    “...There are people counting on you.” He finally says, quietly. “If you will not look after yourself properly for your own sake, then at least do it for them. Everyone was quite worried, you know.”</p><p>    “They shouldn’t.”</p><p>    “...Pardon?”</p><p>    Byleth finally turns their head to gaze up at him. Eyes hard, enigmatic sea glass floating in depths not easily reached.</p><p>    The two look at each other. Still, wary. Each subtly challenging, feeling the edge of a fight, neither wanting to be the one to start it.</p><p>    “...Why do you say that?” Seteth finally asks. Quieter, inquiring, less quick draw sharp and more drifting smoke.</p><p>    “They shouldn’t worry because nothing happened to me. And even if it did,” Byleth blinks, slowly, “The world would go on without me, as would they. As does the war.”</p><p>    Unmoving, Seteth takes in the words, subtly rolls his jaw, and carefully sits on the edge of the coffee table, so that he may look at them more directly.</p><p>    Byleth simply looks back at him, face settling back into blankness. Whether they mean to, or they are letting their natural way take over, letting themselves fold into quiet, is unclear. Waiting for Seteth to become unsettled by it, as most do.</p><p>    However; he doesn’t. He looks at them straight on, subtly tilting his head as though contemplating a curiosity in the library. But he is undaunted, and, somehow, he smiles. Warm, and sad.</p><p>    “Didn’t we just go through something similar with Dimitri, not so very long ago? They worry because they care about you. Thick as your skull may be.” He tries, softer still. “I would argue that even if the world would go on, there are some people who would not be able to.”</p><p>    Byleth doesn’t answer.</p><p>    Clasping his hands together, elbows on his knees, Seteth admits, “There is a very heavy burden on you.”</p><p>    “I didn’t ask for it.”</p><p>    “No,” He agrees. “You did not. But nonetheless, you must carry it, for no one else can do it for you.”</p><p>    Carefully, Byleth slides their legs out from under them, blanket shifting with their movements. Setting both feet on the floor so they can stare down at them, and their weary hands.</p><p>    Some days, it still seems unfathomable how they got here. Some days, it is too busy, too noisy, too loud, for them to think about it. And some days, they wonder how they somehow ended up with what feels like the weight of the world on their shoulders, never even bothering to ask whether or not they could bear it.</p><p>    But they have to.</p><p>    “This is unfair.” They whisper through cracked lips.</p><p>    “That it is.” Seteth kindly agrees. “I’m afraid that many things in this world are.”</p><p>    The lamp by the desk flickers. Above, there’s a creak in the wooden beam, something that would have been missed if not for how silent the rest of the room.</p><p>    “You hold a very great responsibility.” Seteth admits. “More than most. But I do believe that our collective faith in you is not misplaced, if that should hold any meaning for you. You are, after all, capable of many miraculous things.”</p><p>    He reaches for their hand, folding it within both of his own. Squeezing gently, he bends to catch their eye, leading it up to find his trusting, determined expression.</p><p>    “Many people are counting on you, but that doesn’t mean you must bear it all alone. I once told you that I would stay by your side, and I find that growing truer by the day. Whatever may come to pass, I will never abandon you.”</p><p>    Finding nothing but honesty in Seteth’s gaze, Byleth lets their eyes close, unable to bear it. Unfathoming, how life had brought them here, had brought them this.</p><p>    For all its injustice and its violence, life has given them peace in an extended hand.</p><p>    Byleth reopens their eyes, finding that Seteth’s hasn’t wavered, searching their face for cracks.</p><p>    “What about if I oversleep?”</p><p>    Seteth chuckles. “Yes, even then.”</p><p>    “And I steal food from the kitchen?”</p><p>    “I’d prefer you didn’t, but yes, even then.”</p><p>    “...And after the war?”</p><p>    “Yes. Even then.”</p><p>   ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    Several years later, and Seteth has proven his word to be good. Perhaps a little much so, and a little more literally than Byleth would have thought he meant, in the moment.</p><p>    He’s taken to fussing over them near constantly. Unable, it seems, to let them be, needing to be assured with his own two eyes that they are whole and healthy at any given moment. Even after the war’s end, even more so when he convinces them to take on the title of archbishop, and their duties are somehow multiplied.</p><p>Byleth takes to running from him. They get quite good at it, even if he somehow always manages to track them down.</p><p>“Thanks for hiding with me.” They whisper to Flayn, while they crouch close together behind a hedge, her tiny form cradled in their arms.</p><p>“I am not hiding from my brother,” Flayn huffs indignantly. “I am merely enjoying the shade behind this particular bush.”</p><p>“If you say so.”</p><p>They wait until Seteth turns the other way to try the other side of the plaza. Then they scurry out from behind the dense thicket, to behind a bench, a statue, and finally make a dash for the door back into the monastery hallway, past a very highly amused Annette and Mercedes, who giggle and promise not to tell.</p><p>After a point, it becomes a habit, and then a game.</p><p>They never run all that far; they simply like the escape, and the break from all his worrying and nitpicking. And, actually, for the fun of it, even if Seteth doesn’t find it nearly as amusing.</p><p>Byleth likes that he looks for them.</p><p>But at the end of the day, he doesn’t truly need to. They always return to him.</p><p>    They find him now, at sunset’s fall, in the saint’s chapel. As ever, the statues loom solemnly from their pedestals, as they stroll slowly through the doorway.</p><p>    Seteth glances up when he hears their footsteps, and pauses from where he’s dusting off St. Indech’s plaque.</p><p>    “Ah, there you are.”</p><p>    Byleth nods once as greeting.</p><p>    “Did you need something?”</p><p>    They shake their head, and Seteth turns back to give the metal one more consideration before folding his handkerchief and sliding it back into his coat pocket.</p><p>    Despite the slow fall of evening, there’s enough light to make the stained glass windows glow in the dim hall. Little particles of dust shine like snowfall as they drift, the room a haze of mingling colors and dark shadows.</p><p>    With careful, quiet steps, Byleth joins Seteth before the statue. He folds his hands behind his back, looking up at the stone face of the saint.</p><p>    Turns out, they are as passive as ever. Byleth isn’t sure why being in here always seems to calm him so, but it does, even in the seeping melancholy they always sense in the room.</p><p>    He doesn’t seem bothered, but thoughtful instead. The colored panels play a mosaic across the harsh-cut angles of his profile. Golden rose, soft violet, sea green-blue.</p><p>    The cathedral has gone quiet for the day, the main hall empty of choirs and believers. From afar, they can hear the organ being shut and the priest’s footsteps shuffling off in the other direction, done with what would be the last service of the day.</p><p>    And they are alone.</p><p>    “Have you eaten yet?”</p><p>    Once more, Byleth shakes their head.</p><p>    “You ought to.” He says quietly, “The kitchen will soon be done for the day.”</p><p>    Still, neither move, content in their silence.</p><p>    Even with the bloodshed ended, the days still feel long, and tiring. There may be peace, but there is little rest. They have just begun to rebuild from the ashes, and creating is a lot more complicated than destroying.</p><p>    Still, Seteth doesn’t complain, weary as he must be, at least sometimes. At least, not to Byleth. Steadfast as ever, unfailingly dedicated.</p><p>    To Byleth, he has been a haven and a counsel. As much trouble as they delight in sometimes giving him, he has kept his word to stay beside them, and they would have it no other way. To do so is unfathomable, and uncomfortable to even think about.</p><p>    He might stay beside them, but could they say the same? Would he allow them to stand by his side, when the world is too much for even him?</p><p>    Perhaps he would. At once, Byleth doesn’t know when they have started wondering, how long the question has been there, waiting to be acknowledged. They have never realized it.</p><p>    But Byleth has never quite known how to ask much of anything from anyone, and as content as they have been going through life that way, it does make things like this complicated. Especially when they don’t particularly know what it is they are asking for.</p><p>    “...Mm?” Seteth notices them looking at him. “Is something the matter?”</p><p>    Well. Whenever they are at an impasse with a decision, he always tells them to start working with the simplest solution first. The rest will start to untangle itself, he’d say, and usually, he was right.</p><p>    So Byleth moves closer. Perplexed but unalarmed, Seteth doesn’t step back, but does startle slightly when they bring their arms around him in a hug.</p><p>    “Byleth?” He says quietly, placing a cautious hand on their back, “Byleth, whatever is the matter?”</p><p>    “Must I be crying to want to be held?” They say softly into the dark blue of his jacket.</p><p>    For a moment, he’s quiet. Gradually, Byleth feels him relax under their arms, and finally, carefully, he wraps his own around their back.</p><p>    “No, I suppose you do not.”</p><p>    The light grows dimmer, and Byleth holds him closer. Lays their head on his chest, wondering how they had gone so many days without him so near, when it feels like this.</p><p>    “Are you truly alright?” Seteth whispers.</p><p>    Byleth nods, letting their eyes drift closed.</p><p>    “I like listening to your heartbeat.” They say, and hear, and feel, when it quickens against their cheek. “It means that you are here.”</p><p>    “I am always here.” He says, seemingly at a loss for any other words.</p><p>Seteth’s embrace becomes firmer, protective, even. And they stay like this for seconds, seconds spread to minutes, and somehow, along the way, they forget the time altogether.</p><p>    After a while, he clears his throat.</p><p>    “We should…”</p><p>    Byleth pulls back just enough to look up at him. Tight brow, clenched jaw. Touches of uncertainty across a face shaped by sternness.</p><p>    “...We should be going now.”</p><p>    Gently, he eases his way out of their arms, giving them a pat on the shoulder and quickly stepping from the room.</p><p>    Byleth follows.</p><p>His turn to run, and their turn to chase.</p><p>  ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    They don’t talk about it. They go about their routines as they normally do. Byleth continues to find ways to evade him, especially when Dimitri makes a visit to the monastery late in the summer. There’d been some official business in nearby Magdred, and he’d taken the chance to see them.</p><p>    His appearances are far and few between, and Seteth learns that there is very little use in trying to get Byleth to do much of anything when he’s about, even though he continues to try.</p><p>    “Are you sure you should not be doing anything else?” Dimitri asks cautiously, while Byleth simply turns in the grass below them, tucking an arm beneath their head.</p><p>    “Probably.” They admit. “But not many kings roll by these parts, you see, and I have to be a gracious host.”</p><p>    “Ah.” Dimitri chuckles and seats himself beside them, watching the stream. “I see you are a most diligent archbishop.”</p><p>    “Exactly.”</p><p>    He looks tired these days, more so every time they see him. He must hear it often, because he doesn’t seem surprised when they mention it, and it’s all the more reason to drag him out into the sunshine. To relax, maybe even nap, to the sound of the gentle rippling of the water, below a blanket of birdsong.</p><p>    They go comfortably between silence and chatting about anything that doesn’t matter. Byleth pulls out and unwraps a jam-filled roll that they pull apart and share with him. They lick the powdered sugar and sticky-sweet of raspberry from their fingers before wading barefoot into the cool water to wash their hands, watching tiny fish come to inspect the intrusion.</p><p>    Fishing yields nothing today, but they don’t care, content to see how the trees reflect in the mirror-clear current, Dimitri watching them with nothing short of his shy brand of love.</p><p>    Most of the afternoon passes in blessed laziness, and they’re nearly asleep among the grass again before they hear him stir beside them.</p><p>    “There you are.”</p><p>    Byleth reluctantly opens their eyes.</p><p>    “Here I am.”</p><p>    Dimitri almost looks a little guilty, as though he were a student caught skipping class, as if he would ever do something so heinous, while Seteth crosses his arms, attention squarely on his missing archbishop.</p><p>    “What are you doing here?”</p><p>    “Enjoying the quiet, until just now.”</p><p>    Byleth <em> almost </em> feels a little guilty, at his annoyed silence.</p><p>    “You should join us.” They offer instead, tilting their head back to look at him standing above.</p><p>    “There is work to be done.” Seteth insists.</p><p>    “Yet you spent an awful lot of time hunting me down.”</p><p>    “And whose fault is that?”</p><p>    “Mine.” Byleth folds their arms behind their head. “But if you have time to do that, you have time to sit and enjoy a few minutes of peace.”</p><p>    “We have both lost enough time already. I’m willing to be lenient, given that Dimitri is visiting, but you cannot simply abandon your work midday.”</p><p>    “I apologize,” Dimitri adds sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to cause such a disruption.”</p><p>    “It is hardly your fault. They do this quite often enough, even without the excuse of entertaining you.”</p><p>    “Yeah, Dimitri,” Byleth stretches themselves out, languidly lifting a leg to drape over his shoulder. “It’s not your fault I’m running off. I’d do it anyway.”</p><p>    The hem of their skirts slip down, exposing most of their leg as the fabric pools at their hip to tumble on the ground, and while Dimitri’s unphased, Seteth’s breath catches.</p><p>    “Archbishop Byleth!” He scolds, “Cover yourself!”</p><p>    “It’s just a leg. Who’s here to see, anyway?”</p><p>    “Still. It’s improper.” He’s trying to glare at them while also trying to look everywhere but them, and it’s an interesting thing to watch.</p><p>    “Dimitri, am I making you uncomfortable?”</p><p>    “Er...no…”</p><p>    “See? He’s fine. What are you on about, then?”</p><p>    “Oh, do what you will! As you are wont to do anyhow.” Flustered, he simply throws his hands up in defeat. “Arguing any further will be a waste, I’m afraid. When you’re ready to take your responsibilities seriously, you’ll know where to find me.”</p><p>    With that, he turns on his heel and quickly proceeds back the way he had come, a storm storm barely contained.</p><p>    “...Is my being here causing a problem?” Dimitri asks, once he’s gone from sight.</p><p>    After all this time, there are still glints of that unsure, overly polite boy. Byleth smiles to themselves, despite the gentle ache that settles in their chest.</p><p>    “We’re always like this.”</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    Slowly, the seasons turn their cycle. As melodious and routine as a piano’s serenade, spring crickets turn to summer fruit. The leaves begin to take on their glowing reds, oranges, gold, and tilt to the ground at the whim of autumn’s cool breezes.</p><p>    The harmony of their days plays a gentle chord, even with the business of their endless, endless work. Mornings with hot tea, sometimes coffee. Flayn naps in Byleth’s lap while they stroke her hair, Seteth stealing fond glances while pretending he isn’t.</p><p>    He looks at Flayn, and sometimes, at Byleth.</p><p>    Days spent coordinating with locals to rebuild, meetings with nobles to smooth out relief efforts. Hymns rising from the choir as a backdrop to the ringing church bells, birds scattering from the towers. Late nights by candle flame, whispered conversations that slide over the tongue as smoothly as whiskey or brandy.</p><p>    It’s one of these nights that Byleth catches him watching them, with no Flayn to use as an excuse.</p><p>    They’ve pulled up a chair to the front of his desk, elbow propped on the table. Some joke or another passes between them, and makes Seteth chuckle while Byleth brings the glass to their lips, swallowing another sip of sweet burn down their throat.</p><p>    When they move to set down their cup, that’s when they notice.</p><p>    Seteth goes very still, and Byleth as well.</p><p>    Their cheeks are already flushed a bit with the liquor, their breaths suddenly caught against the softness with which he regards them.</p><p>    His hands have stilled where he was reaching for the bottle, slowly lowering to the polished wood.</p><p>    Like the crescendo of a solo, the realization comes across Byleth in a gentle, swelling wave.</p><p>    It washes over them as he quietly clears his throat and turns his eyes away, reaching again for the bottle and carefully removing the stopper.</p><p>    “One more, and then we really ought to turn in.”</p><p>    The formerly unknown emotion that has been churning, building, rising, suddenly has a name, as it washes over them in silent, dramatic revelation. Their empty chest gone full, the heart they don’t feel abruptly swelling beyond the cage of their ribs, their lungs.</p><p>    It is beyond them, how they had not realized the tides pulling them to and fro, into depths from where they cannot begin to fathom or understand.</p><p>    Still, they raise the glass to their mouth again, watching Seteth do the same from the corner of their eye.</p><p>    Maybe they are not alone.</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    They walk the marketplace, its lanes thriving with bustle. Shopkeeps ring bells and vendors call from their stalls, clapping their hands and goading for attention, while little ones wind around their parents’ legs.</p><p>    Harvests have been good this year, the baskets filled with its yield. Byleth tugs on Seteth’s sleeve to make him stop so they can buy a bag of apples, deep ruby red and bursting sweetly in their mouth with a crunch.</p><p>    Seteth purchases some candy for Flayn, even while sighing that he shouldn’t indulge her sweet tooth so much.</p><p>    “Let her enjoy them,” Byleth urges softly, bumping playfully into his side. “Her desires are so simple. One day, you’ll miss it when some sweets were all it took to make her happy.”</p><p>    Maybe the touch was a mistake. It sends sparks along their arm, from where they had met his solid form, and their mouth goes inexplicably dry.</p><p>    Distracting themselves with another bite of their apple, they catch Seteth’s soft chuckle.</p><p>    “I suppose you’re right.”</p><p>    Leisurely strolling through the streets, Byleth can’t help but notice how close they walk. Maybe it’s just because of the crowds. But have they always hovered this close to each other?</p><p>    Seteth’s hand is close. So close, that sometimes their knuckles brush, something kinetic warming their skin with the barely-there.</p><p>    It would be easy to take it. To feel his fingers slide between theirs, to press their palms together.</p><p>    A tickling flush rises to their cheeks, gazing wistfully as the couples they spot along their route. Is that what it feels like, they wonder, at the blissful smiles, the gentle eyes.</p><p>    “Byleth?”</p><p>    Seteth’s eyes are gentle, too, when they look his way.</p><p>    “Mm?”</p><p>    “You seem distracted. Are you alright?”</p><p>    They smile.</p><p>    “I think so.”</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    Late one cold evening, they’re taking a carriage back from a neighboring town. It’s a rather long ride, and it’d been a long day. Before they even realize it, they’re nodding off, jerking awake with their head on Seteth’s shoulder as the wheels go over a bump in the road.</p><p>    “Sorry.” They mumble, jerking away.</p><p>    “Quite alright.”</p><p>    The moon is full tonight, and when they peek outside, past the drape at the carriage window, the landscape is brightly lit. Whispering below a cool breeze, the grass sways, silver beneath its glow.</p><p>    “We are still quite a distance away,” Seteth informs them. “If you’re tired, you ought to get some rest.”</p><p>    Unexpectedly, he reaches around their shoulders, guiding them closer. Trusting, they allow it, but skeptical, surprised when he seems to be urging them to—</p><p>    Cautiously, they rearrange themselves along the bench, and settle their head in his lap. His hand runs soothingly over their hair, face calm and fond as he beams down at them.</p><p>    “This is okay?”</p><p>    “Why wouldn’t it be?”</p><p>    Byleth searches his face. He doesn’t flinch back, doesn’t look away. Simply resumes threading through their hair with careful fingers, drawing it back from where it collects in a tangle at their neck.</p><p>    Submitting to the moment, Byleth draws their cloak closer around them, against the chill of the night.</p><p>    Seteth is warm against them, smelling of pine and parchment. The scent of autumn clings to him too, brisk and fresh with falling leaves.</p><p>    “Seteth,” They murmur, half-mindless with the call of sleep. “Why are you so good to me? Don’t I cause you trouble?”</p><p>    From above, he chuckles, the rumble of his chest making it down along his legs and against their face.</p><p>    “Sometimes, you do. Often, actually.” He admits, tweaking their ear. Byleth huffs. “But you are also very dear to me, as well.”</p><p>    “...Is that so?”</p><p>    “It is.” Seteth whispers, leaning his head down just slightly, bringing their world that much closer in around the two of them. “You are, for all your eccentricities, a wonderful person. I’m honored to be by your side.”</p><p>    ◦◦◦♢♢♢◦◦◦</p><p>    <em> Dima-di, </em>Byleth writes,</p><p>    <em> I don’t suppose you know what it’s like to be in love? </em></p><p>His answer isn’t all that surprising with his next letter.</p><p>    <em> Dearest Byleth, </em></p><p> <em> I’m afraid that I do not. </em></p><p> <em> May I ask who has caught your lovely eye, my beloved friend? </em></p><p>Byleth can't suppress their wide smile.</p>
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